


The Birds and the Bees

by tinkle_time



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bees, Birds, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, HAPPY 420 EVERYBODY, M/M, Prostitution, breaking hearts, but not like that, do bees get pollen allergies, do birds coo, dropping hot dogs to the ground, im not high, mullet stan, theres hot dogging in this fic, theres no vore in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 07:28:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinkle_time/pseuds/tinkle_time
Summary: Stan is in desperate need of a good sausage. Sadly, the one he gets is really shitty.





	The Birds and the Bees

All Stan wanted was one fucking hot dog. He hadn’t had one in at least three years. Simply, there’d always been _interferences_. Most of the time those interferences had involved being broke. Other times, there’d just been no good hot dogs. He wasn’t about to waste his time with no cheap hot dogs. _Stan_ himself may have been a cheap ass, but that doesn’t mean he was going to squander an opportunity to enjoy himself once in his miserable life.

No, he wanted this hot dog. He wanted this hot dog _bad_.

For the past few weeks, he’d been working his hands and feet to the bone. Going door to door to sell his terrible products during the day and walking around on the streets to sell his terrible ass during the night. It sure was a life. Most of his funds had been dedicated to other important things, such as survival - gas money, fast food, and buying coffees at greasy diners so he could have access to their bathrooms. Nothing like sink showers to make him presentable the next day.

Now, however, was his time. Stan had landed himself in Chicago. And that hypothetical hot dog had his name written all over it.

It was a beautiful afternoon on a sunny day. Not too cold, which was amazing, considering his location. Stan strode - almost pompously - to the first hot dog cart he saw in the center of the city. Around him, people were going about their daily lives, but he had only one thing in sight.

He ordered it, a perfect Chicago dog - the best balance of sweet and crunchy and sour and meaty that had Stan pretty much coming in his pants. Not literally, of course. He wasn’t gross like that.

Stan handed over the illegally earned cash to the vendor and turned around to make his way back to his car.

** WHEN SUDDENLY **

A pale, skinny hand smacked his most prized possession onto the concrete.

Stan whipped around, offended, “Hey, who the fuck-”

“Hiya!” said the most twink guy Stan had ever seen with his own two eyes. Whatever. That would just make it easier for him to break this guy like the twig he was. It’d be sweet, sweet revenge for his lost lenore. Stan balled his hand into a fist and was about to crack the guy’s face open, when said guy offered, “I’ve got a better sausage you can put in your mouth.”

Stan was so taken aback by the forwardness that he relaxed his punching hand. “Wha-?” he asked, intelligently.

“And I’ve got better buns, too,” the guy winked.

That was doubtful. There was no way any ass could compare to a good hot dog bun. It took that long for Stan to notice that this twink-y fuck had weirdly gold eyes, very opposite to Stan’s own chocolate-hued ones.

Stan scoffed.

“Don’t look so down! Name’s Bill!” Bill chirped. He held out a hand. “With what I can pay you, you can buy as many of your disgusting, ground up pig meats and other unmentionables as you want.”

That was equally doubtful. “Bill” - if that was even his name because he seemed shadier than even Stan was - didn’t look the type to be randomly giving handouts to homeless people. And Stan knew he looked the part, so he voiced his opinion as he was wont to do (even when he shouldn’t), “Yeah, right.”

Bill still had his hand up. At least, until the hot dog vendor yelled at them to scram.

Stan shrugged, thinking that’d be the end of this awkward but otherwise unremarkable encounter. He’d just try again tomorrow to get his hot dog, when short, scrawny creeps weren’t harassing him.

But Bill was persistent. He grabbed Stan by the hood of his ratty jacket with far more strength than a 5’6” stick should have and dragged them - despite loud protests - to a much deader part of the city. It was no surprise they ended up in a filthy alleyway. Stan found himself cornered into the back wall. He wasn’t too scared. Bill looked like he’d go down if Stan so much as breathed on him. And were Stan to be honest, he _was_ slightly curious about what this Bill guy thought was so important to talk about that he destroyed everything Stan ever loved and cared about.

Stan sneezed suddenly.

“Gesundheit,” Bill said.

“Thanks. So, uh, why you got me backed up against a wall like, like you’re some kinda serial killer?” Stan was asking the important questions.

“I told you. I want you to suck my dick.”

Well, that was straightforward. “Well, that was straightforward.”

Bill clapped his hands together brightly. “So get on your knees.”

Stan looked up at the sky - yep, it was still broad daylight. Then he looked behind Bill - yep, there were still people who could clearly see someone getting a blowjob. Being arrested didn’t sound so great when the promise of a Chicago dog was continuing to enrapture his feeble human body.

“Don’t worry about them.” Bill waved a hand. “Humans don’t see anything beyond their small, insignificant worlds.”

“Calm down there, buckaroo.”

Bill stepped forward, kind of like a snake or some other untrustworthy animal. “I think you should go down.” He smiled, and it was definitely snake-like.

“Uh, no, I think I’m gonna go,” Stan said.

Bill lifted a hand, slowly, confidently - and Stan tensed. Bill held up his index finger, pressed it to Stan’s chest, and then Stan was stumbling back into the unforgiving brick wall as if he’d been punched by an angry bus driver. In other words, it hurt like a bitch. Winded, he collapsed onto his knees. Immediately, Bill’s hand was in Stan’s tangled, rat’s nest hair and yanking his head to look up into those stupid gold eyes.

“Now, are you gonna succ, or am I gonna have to make you?” Bill asked too happily. Yeah, he _had_ to be a serial killer.

“Fine, fine.” Stan rolled his eyes. “Gimme your dick.”

“C’moooonn, Bruiser, if you don’t get it yourself, how do I know you really want it?”

Stan grumbled, but he went ahead and worked at unbuttoning Bill’s pants.

“Thataboy,” Bill cooed, like a pigeon or a seagull. Did seagulls even coo? Stan wasn’t sure if he’d call the squawks of the gulls that always hung around the beach back home _cooing_. He was distracting himself, though, from the starchy fabric of Bill’s slacks under his hands and the soft curve of Bill’s cock - like, literally. Like this guy had a hard time getting it up. Not that Stan was about to comment.

Eventually, Stan got Bill’s fully erect penile flesh into his warm, wet, facial cavern. Bill determined that then would be a great time to shove himself roughly into Stan’s mouth. Stan wanted to pretend that he still had a gag reflex. Unfortunately, his throat fought back but once before there was no longer any resistance.

Bill probably said something like “Wow, you sure are a good whore.” It processed in Stan’s ears more as a nasally buzz. A congested bee, if you will. Fitting, because Stan was allergic to pollen, and Bill was certainly agitating his nerves. Bill held Stan’s head in place as he began to actually face-fuck him, for real. Stan sure hoped he didn’t have as hard a time getting off as getting it up.

That stuffy-nosed bee flew past Stan’s ears quite a few times during the whole ordeal. Sometimes the buzzing sounded like “This is a much better use of your mouth.” Sometimes it sounded more like “I can’t wait to see him like this, too.” Whoever this “him” was, Stan didn’t care. His concern was more aligned with thoughts about how the fuck had no one noticed what they were doing. Maybe people really _were_ as ignorant as Bill had claimed.

After only a slightly longer than average amount of time, Bill pulled out and blessed Stan with one last indignity of having come shot onto his face.

“Wow,” Stan said hoarsely.

“Nay,” Bill said. “Kinda average, actually.” He finally let go of his grip in Stan’s hair, which he had difficulty with - Stan’s hair was that much of a mess. Hey, combs were expensive and unnecessary.

Stan stood up and had half the mind to try to deck Bill. He didn’t. The hairs standing up on the back of his neck said not to.

Bill fixed his pants as Stan wiped semen off his face. That just went to show the duality of man.

“You promised me cash?” Stan asked. The hairs standing up on his arms said not to, but it wasn’t the first time he ignored self-preservation in the name of more money.

“Right!” Bill all but crowed. “Here.” He reached into the neck of his shirt and pulled out a large wad of cash that could not have possibly fit in there.

Stan took it cautiously. As he flipped through them, he realized, with no small amount of amazement, that they were all real. Or were really damn good counterfeits. “What? Are you made of money or something?”

Bill laughed, “Nope, but they sure are made of me.”

Stan squinted. What the fuck did that mean. 

“Well, I’ll be on my way!” Bill turned on a heel and marched off. One step before he left the alleyway, he turned his head back - owlishly too far - and said, “We’ll be in touch, Bruiser.”

Stan didn’t respond. He stood and stared at that skinny-ass silhouette as it disappeared into the flow of human traffic. He’d been right. Bill really didn’t have better buns than his hot dog. With at least fifteen more gripes and a growing amount of questions, Stan shoved the money in his pocket and headed off.

God, he really needed that hot dog now.

**Author's Note:**

> stanxhotdog otp


End file.
